


I Wish I Had a River

by Savageandwise



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1978, Angst, M/M, Sexual Content, solo years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: New York City,  winter 1978, against his better judgement John goes to Battery Park to meet Paul.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 29
Kudos: 77





	I Wish I Had a River

**Author's Note:**

> "I always remember hearing years ago this thing about a sort of Zen approach to life, where, you would hold something in your hand, knowing that, at some point, it would break, it would no longer be there."  
> \- Kate Bush
> 
> This was the quote @pauliemaolie on Tumblr gave me as a prompt and this is what I made of it.
> 
> This fic is also about my love of rivers specifically the Hudson and the Mersey. I borrowed the line about not being able to live in a city without a river from @Drearymondays thank you!
> 
> It's been a good long while since I wrote this pairing. I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know.

In the end it's the river that changes John's mind. He takes the 9 to Battery Park to go see the ferries to and from Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.

_Give me your tired, your poor,  
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free._

He can't breathe on 72nd Street, the sight of Central Park is stifling. It's better here, looking out at the water. It's only barely spring, the weather can still turn on you at any moment and you could be ankle-deep in a pothole full of slush. The brisk air burns his lungs but he takes a deep breath, then another and he can smell the river: muddy and salty and rank. Smells like freedom.

"I didn't think you'd come," Paul says. His coat is too thin, he's got his hands crammed into his pockets. He's probably forgotten his gloves again. "I thought I was all pizza and fairy tales."

Paul called last week to say he'd be in New York and hoped to meet for a coffee or a slice of pizza. Just to catch up. There was a hopefulness in his voice that grated on John's nerves and he put him off with a scathing reply. He was probably planning a comeback, or just wanted to play a few tunes for old time's sake or something like that. Paul, the eternal optimist, who never stopped believing in happy endings, called another three times before John relented.

"Here I am," John says, spreading his gloved hands like a magician on a kid's TV programme. "Pizza, fairy tales and persistence," he adds after a beat.

"Here you are," Paul agrees. They look at each other for a while in silence and then John turns his gaze back to New York Harbour. 

"I don't know how you can live in London," John says abruptly. "I could never live in a city without a river."

Paul lets out a soft laugh. "We have the Thames," he reminds John gently.

"A real river."

"I mean...if you want to get technical it's the largest river in England…" Paul points out.

John waves his words away with a grin. "Details."

John tries to remember the Mersey, what it felt like to look out across the grey waves towards that blurry stretch of land. They used to watch the tug boats some mornings. Not speaking, just smoking and listening to the seagulls. Dreaming of their great escape. John longs for the innocence of the boy he had been. He whistles a few tuneless bars, until a song shapes itself between his lips.

"So ferry 'cross the Mersey…" Paul half sings along. "John, you old romantic." 

John doesn't answer. Being with Paul opens up whole cans of worms he'd rather not open. He can't forget who he is with Paul, where he came from. He can't be the John who lives in New York and takes care of his boy. He has to be Paul's John.

"It's bigger in my head too," Paul says. "The Mersey. The whole city is bigger and brighter."

John whistles a few more notes, the last one is sour. He grimaces and pulls out his cigarette case, offers it to Paul.

"Still smoking Gitanes? Unfiltered, no less!" Paul exclaims. "I'd better not...me lungs'll give out."

He takes one anyway and cups his hand over it to keep out the wind while John lights it for him. Paul sucks down the smoke like a pro, exhales slowly.

"Fuck me," he sighs. "I'm a bit light-headed, aren't I?"

There's a joke in there somewhere but John lets it go and lights his own cigarette.

"Slow down, pardner," John says like he's John Wayne. His cigarette has gone out again and he pulls his lighter out of his pocket to light it. Something tumbles from his pocket and Paul bends over to pick it up. It's a plec. He offers it to John, his expression so pathetically hopeful John has to look away. 

"So now what?" John asks. "Did you have a plan? Or you figured I'd see Paul McCartney in all his glory and go weak in the knees?"

Paul shrugs, picks a bit of stray tobacco off the tip of his tongue, he closes his fingers around the plec and puts it in his own pocket.

"Wouldn't be the first time," he says, eyes flashing. "It's a bit chilly or I'd have worn my sport coat."

John's lips twitch with amusement. He's not thinking of St. Peter's, of the day he met Paul for the first time. He's thinking of that afternoon two years ago. Paul's scruffy jacket and wrinkled shirt, that faintly defiant look on his face.

"You can't just come 'round without calling," John said.

Paul's mouth fell open in protest, he closed it again and cleared his throat.

"I'm here now. You could just pretend I called."

He'd forgotten the power of Paul's silly, flirtatious grin. The way he'd open his eyes wide and then flutter his dark lashes like a silver screen leading lady. That was what did it in the end. He'd grabbed Paul's elbow awkwardly, squeezing it once half amiable, half irritated and shoved him out the door. He'd been afraid. He'd been terrified Paul would suck him back into his orbit and then discard him on his way to his next tour location. It was easier to cut him out entirely than succumb again.

"I should've called first," Paul says suddenly, like he can read John's mind. He lets the fag hang from his lip while he rubs his hands together to warm them.

John wants to say something pithy, to put him in his place, but the words stick in his throat. He's starting to see a pattern here, how he keeps holding back instead of speaking his mind. He never used to hold back with Paul, that was the beauty of their friendship. The truth is he's tired of fighting all the time. He flicks the cigarette butt over the railing into the water and shrugs. 

"I could've been nicer. Instead of acting like I had a broom shoved up me bum."

Paul gives him a look like he's about to agree and then smiles instead. He's trying too, John realises, he must want this pretty badly. "If we wanted to see the statue we should have booked, I reckon," Paul says.

"Do you want to see the statue? Or do you want to go on a boat and get all weepy and nostalgic?" John asks.

"I want to be your friend again!" he says crossly, drops what's left of his own cigarette, grinds it under his shoe.

"My friend?" John says warily. 

Paul raises his shoulders and then lets them drop again, expels his breath in an impatient gust. "You know what I mean."

They stood by another river, another time, on a bridge watching lovers stroll like they were characters in a French drama.

"That one's another lad or I'll eat my hat," Paul had said. There was a strange nervousness in his voice that John picked up on at once. 

It wasn't anything they hadn't already seen in Hamburg, but that was St. Pauli, the red light district. This was Paris. In Hamburg it had been sordid. In Paris it was romantic. He'd pointed to a couple, standing by the railing further down the river, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. John had pulled his glasses from his pocket to see them better. They stood, mouth to mouth, bodies pressed flush against each other.

"Shameless!" he'd pronounced it, feeling his stomach tighten deliciously. How beautiful, he'd thought. How free. He'd pushed the back of his hand against Paul's palm casually, felt Paul's fingers spasm against his once, twice, like a startled bird flexing its wings. 

"It's not. I like it," Paul had said doggedly, red staining his cheeks. "They're happy." 

He'd grasped John's wrist abruptly, his fingers sliding over it like he was taking his pulse. There had been no way to deny his excitement. They were perfectly matched, practically the same height, he didn't have to incline his head to press his mouth to Paul's. He remembered feeling relieved to finally do it and then overwhelmed with desire he wasn't sure how to express. 

Paul's lips are trembling. John watches him for a moment trying to decide if he's sad or angry or just cold, or all of those things at once.

"Can't we just...go back to how it was before?" he says, his voice pitched high, pleading.

John thinks of how they'd expressed it later on, alone in their tiny hotel room. How sometimes when he permits himself to remember, it feels as though he never left, he's still tangled in the sheets, Paul's warm body heavy on top of him. Sometimes it feels like he's liberated. Sometimes it feels like he's being stifled.

He wants to say yes, they can go back, nothing simpler. That's not true, though. Those days are over, they've changed too much. If they met today, would they still be friends? Would they be brothers? Lovers? He doesn't think Paul would give him the time of day.

"We could take the Staten Island Ferry. It's a nice ride and we'll get tickets without booking in advance. Less tourists with cameras, too," John says at last.

He starts walking towards the ferry terminal before he can change his mind. At first he doesn't even check to see if Paul is still following him but then curiosity gets the better of him. Paul's sliding around on his leather-soled shoes trying to avoid the puddles and cursing under his breath. The streets are salted but that doesn't help much. That first year in New York City John wore out three pairs of shoes. The salt ate right through them. Reluctantly, John hangs back and offers Paul his arm.

"Can't have you breaking your neck, can we? Linda will have my balls," John says.

Paul snorts but takes John's arm and they make their way to the terminal slowly.

"Like a pair of old idiots," Paul mutters.

"Have you got your quarter?" John asks him, reaching into his right-hand pocket to search for one.

"Have I got...aren't you paying for me, you cheapskate?" Paul says, pulling a face.

"Depends…" John begins and then stops himself. Depends on whether or not you put out. Time was, the line would have rolled off his tongue. Now he isn't sure he's even really attracted to Paul anymore. Maybe it's just an echo from a long-dead romance. A ghostly reverb from a dissonant guitar chord.

"Depends on…" Paul says. His face is pink and his eyes are very bright. 

The problem is he never got over that awkward charm of McCartney's. He never found anyone who got under his skin like Paul does, not even Yoko. John pulls out two quarters and buys their tokens. 

They stand on the deck looking back at New York as they head towards Staten Island. The air always seems to crackle with energy in New York. John remembers the first time he was ever here, how it had felt like the start of a new life. At the time he'd figured that it was just Beatlemania, just an offshoot of that craziness. But he felt it again when he moved here with Yoko. Here, every day felt like the start of a new life. It's just going dark and the lights are on and John can't think of a more beautiful sight. Not the pyramids, not the Eiffel towel. Paul's face is very serious, the line of his bottom lip almost petulant, his brows arching high over those hazel eyes that sparkle in honest delight. There's an openness to Paul that John has always envied. A willingness to find something new to love about the world every day. John's just trying to live in it. 

It's loud out here too, with the wind and the sound of the river swirling metres and metres below them. He has to put his mouth right up to Paul's ear to be heard. They're closer, physically, than they have been in years and John's skin prickles with fierce joy. He remembers acutely, against his will, the feeling of Paul's skin beneath his fingers. Paul is still holding on to his arm because the ground is slippery as fuck out here.

"They're gonna think we're a pair of old queens," John remarks but doesn't shake Paul's hand off. He wonders if some kid is staring at them, assuming they're boyfriends.

Paul shrugs, gives John's arm a possessive little squeeze. "If I break my neck Linda will have your balls."

John's stomach lurches. This is how easy it would be to fall right back in. Right back where they left off nearly a decade ago. 

"Do you want to go in? It'll be muggy as fuck down there, but warmer," John asks.

Paul shakes his head. "Best view of the city, this."

He's not looking at the city at all. He's looking at John. In Paris, they'd walked everywhere practically in each other's arms like this. No one much noticed them. Or maybe they had, but they didn't care being young and wild and in love. John leans in and Paul turns his head, giving him his ear so he can hear him better. But John takes his chin in hand, pulls it sharply so Paul is facing him. I'll just do this once, John thinks, once for old times sake. Then Paul lets out a soft sound of impatience and John forgets to count. He kisses him again and again, curls his fists in that thin winter coat.

"Is that a yes, then?" Paul asks breathlessly.

"Yes," John murmurs. "No. I don't know...you tell me."

Paul doesn't say a word. They kiss all the way to Staten Island. They wait for the next ferry in a dingy little cafe at the ferry station. They sit on the orange vinyl seats, the stench of Clorox and grease heavy in the air. Paul buys them instant hot chocolate in blue and white paper cups. It tastes fucking terrible, just pure artificial flavouring. John warms his hands on the cup and then drains the lukewarm drink in one go. Paul can't stop talking about his new tunes and his kids and people they knew in England. He's looking at him the whole time, waiting for the enchantment to work. John wants to tell him he needn't bother. That brand of magic doesn't work on him anymore.

"The thing about any potential reunion...any band reunion..." John says, breaking the silence. "The thing is...how could it ever live up to expectations?"

He chops out a line of sugar on the Formica table with the empty packet. 

"For starters...stop thinking like that," Paul says softly. 

"What I mean is...people…" he pauses deliberately. "People expect certain standards. And maybe one could no longer deliver?"

"People can get stuffed, can't they?" Paul says crossly. He smudges the sugar line with his thumb.

John can't help smile despite the fluttering in his stomach. This is how it always happens with him and Paul. He lays down the boundaries and Paul pushes and pushes and pushes his way past them. With his easy smiles, good natured joking. With his long lashes and his way with words.

"Maybe I'm not worried about people," John admits.

"Aren't you?" 

"Maybe I'm worried about…" John flicks his index finger towards Paul casually.

Paul gives him that shy smile. The one he's practiced on parents and soft-hearted birds and journos. He's immune to it, John tells himself. He's been inoculated. Go on, Macca, do your worst.

"You never have to worry about that, silly," Paul says.

"Don't I?"

They get on the ferry headed back to the city. The sun has gone down and it's cold but they don't go inside where it's warmer. Before them Manhattan glitters sinisterly. From this angle everything looks different. They sit on a bench on the deck, looking out over the black water, that shining strip of city growing closer and closer every minute. Paul puts his hand on John's waist under his jacket. It's no longer questioning, no longer gentle. There's a casual possessiveness to his touch, an arrogance. Desire sears through John like a forest fire but he's frozen in place, his limbs like lead.

Paul's knees are pressed against his. His fingers clench in John's jumper.

"I can't do this," John says just as Paul kisses him, ignoring his words. He slides his hand over John's thigh.

He leans into Paul for a split second, lets him run his fingers over his stiffening cock. It's as easy as falling overboard during a storm. That's how easy it is to fall back into it. He kisses Paul back, feeling the desperation rise like a wave building momentum before crashing to the shore. Paul is struggling with the buttons on his jeans.

"You're fucking crazy," John gasps.

Paul shrugs, rubs his lips against John's ear, his breath is spiky with longing. "The more open you are about it the less they notice, you taught me that."

He did, a lifetime ago. Paul's hand is cold against his cock for a moment and he shivers, drops his own gloved hand to cover it while Paul strokes him. He turns towards Paul, the wind is in their hair. He puts his hand on Paul's cock over his trousers, grinds his palm against his hardness. He wants to be naked, skin against skin. They cut a path through the river, inching closer and closer to the city. It glows gold and red and silver, gleams like a king's ransom in jewels. Throbs with energy, like a feral beast, its fearsome heart beating at double time. Like John's heart and Paul's. John stops him just in the nick of time, before he spills all over himself. He pulls Paul's hand away and holds it tight, his breath shuddering out unevenly. He looks up into Paul's eyes. There's desperation there, delicious and sharp. John tucks himself in, wincing in discomfort. There's beauty in this, too, in the pain of that thwarted release. There's beauty in the unfulfilled. You can't see the end of the river but you know it empties back out into the sea sooner or later.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Twinka for the beta and encouragement!


End file.
